Conventional Wisdom
by Nova-chan
Summary: Sherlock has to have his wisdom teeth removed, and Watson cares for him post-op.


Sherlock Holmes did not allow bothersome things like routine surgery to interrupt his career. He had too many cases, too many contacts to meet, to be stuck on his back for a few days like an overturned turtle. He ignored the symptoms even when they began affecting his work. Over time, however, the earaches, headaches, and eventually the inability to work his jaw without substantial pain wore down his excuses. That's when John pounced on him with a surgery date, which would allow for a weekend recovery. The threat of Mycroft's involvement spurred Sherlock to agree, reluctantly.

On a cool Friday morning, Sherlock found himself in a dentist's office, being prepped for surgery. Of course, the night prior, he had been researching the procedure in agonizing detail, managing to freak himself out substantially.

Finally, the anesthesia was administered and all those worries were carried away.

John sat in the waiting room, a year old magazine providing little entertainment. At least the surgery was finally getting done, he reasoned. Sherlock could be so much like a bad-tempered child about the most simple procedures. He shuddered to think what might ensue if Sherlock had the need for an appendectomy or blood transfusion.

Two hours in, John had skimmed through all the magazines on the little coffee table in front of him. He was seriously considering ordering a pizza when the nurse informed him that he could escort his friend home.

John walked into the small operating room in the back of the office to find Sherlock lying slumped in the dental chair, his eyes wide and his limbs stretched out like a limp scarecrow.

Oh, to have a camera…

"Hey, buddy," John said, softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Jooohhn," Sherlock slurred, throwing his head back to glare at his friend. "Why could you let them take out-away my wisdom?"

A video camera.

"I'm sorry," John said, trying to conceal his laughter from Sherlock's deadly serious face. "I won't let them do it again."

"Ok."

John sidled up next to Sherlock, who looked like he was prone to falling asleep. "Sherlock, let's go back to the flat and get you into bed, hmm?"

"Where is it?"

"The flat?"

"Mmm."

"Baker Street…?"

"Tired."

"Let's go then," John said with an eye roll. He wisely requested a wheelchair to transfer Sherlock out to a cab. Although Sherlock insisted in a half-yawn that he could manage, a moment later he tipped over a tray of sharp instruments on the counter. John calmly and patiently guided him over to the wheelchair.

Once they were inside the cab, John sat Sherlock on the opposite side from himself, intending to give the man space to stretch out and rest. A few minutes later, Sherlock was complaining.

"John, you said I could lay on you on the way home…" he murmured.

John sputtered. "What? No I didn't…"

"…this seat hurts my neck," he moaned, his eyes having been closed the entire conversation. "And I'm cold…mmm….my mouth hurts." He tentatively pressed a hand up against his cheek and hissed in pain.

John sighed. "Stop that. Don't touch it." Sherlock's eyes opened and he gave John a pathetic look. "All right, but don't get used to this. It's only because I feel sorry for you." John feigned aggravation, but in reality he was quite fond of Sherlock when he expressed his feelings so openly. He eased Sherlock into a half-sitting position so he could slide next to him on the bench. He then softly lowered his friend's upper half onto his lap.

Sherlock mumbled a thank you, and then fell silent.

/

Mrs. Hudson met them at the front door, fussing over Sherlock as John helped him out of the cab and into the house.

"Sherlock, dear, you look like you were hit by a bus!" she exclaimed. She was flitting around, unsure whether to support Sherlock's other side or to stay out of their way.

"Yep, thaz what happened," Sherlock said. "Hey, I remember this place," he said excitedly, looking at a picture on the wall.

"Do you now?" John asked, mindless of the conversation. He was struggling to walk Sherlock up the stairs with the detective constantly slumping or sliding backwards. "What in God's name have they got you on?" he wondered, mostly to himself.

"The stairs," Sherlock answered, as if this was terribly obvious.

"Ah, I should have known," John said. "Sherlock, do you think you could drink some tea or broth?"

"Yeah," said Sherlock. "Ah!" he yelped, suddenly, startling Mrs. Hudson. "Whaz that?"

John tussled with his flailing roommate for a moment and finally got him to the top of the stairs. "It's only a wall, Sherlock," he muttered. "Mrs. Hudson, would you warm up some chicken broth? And perhaps a little lemon tea?" John practically had to drag Sherlock across the threshold of their shared room.

"Yes, dear, but only because he's just had surgery," Mrs. Hudson said firmly. "You know I'm not your housekeeper."

"Thank you," said John. When Mrs. Hudson left, he said, "Let's give my back a rest and set you on the couch for now."

Sherlock dragged his feet across the floor, stumbling to try and help John to move his uncooperative body. "I feel weird," he said with a groan.

"You'll be back to nor-yourself in a few hours," he said, refraining from referring to Sherlock's usual mode of operation as normal.

Sherlock flung himself down on the couch as soon as he was close enough. John thought he heard his friend say "Weeee," but chose to think that it was just his imagination.

John disappeared to Sherlock's bedroom for a moment and returned with the blanket and pillows from his bed. "Here, sit up a moment so I can get this pillow under you," he instructed.

"John, I need you to hold this for me," Sherlock said, ignoring the request. He handed John his Blackberry. "I don't know why, but it's very important that you keep that. You have to keep it, ok?"

John held the phone almost reverently, but then his expression changed to being very wicked.

Sherlock's phone could take videos.

John seriously considered making a video for blackmail, as Sherlock was currently trying to balance the pillow on his head, but decided to hold off. Maybe later, once Sherlock was a Ilittle/I more consenting.

"Do you need anything, Sherlock?" he asked. If not, he was going to change into some more comfortable clothes and then possibly help Sherlock into some pyjamas.

Sherlock looked at him, the pillow falling to the side. He said something unintelligible.

"What was that?" John wondered, getting close to Sherlock's face.

"I need a hug," Sherlock said, a little louder.

John nearly fell over, balanced as he was between his two widespread knees. He was amazed at how candid Sherlock was being with him. Recovering his wits, John said, "All right. Of course you can have a hug, Sherlock." He gently patted Sherlock on the back with his right arm, affecting a kind of side hug. Sherlock seemed satisfied.

John got back to his feet. "I'm just going to change, Sherlock," he said. "I'll only take a minute."

Sherlock had become fascinated by the afghan on the couch. "What's with all these threads?" he said, astounded.

John chuckled and went off to his room to change.

When John returned, Mrs. Hudson was sitting next to Sherlock, a little tray of tea and soup balanced on her lap. "Just take some tea, Sherlock. It'll be good for your throat."

Sherlock was turned away like a stubborn child. "No," he growled.

"Sherlock," said John, warningly. He crossed the room to stand next to Mrs. Hudson. "What are you doing?"

"She's trying to poison me," Sherlock insisted. "I could tell because the tea is taupe, when it should be sepia."

Mrs. Hudson just shrugged and shook her head, passing the tray off to John on her way out.

"Regardless of the shade of brown the tea is, you should drink it," John said. "You haven't eaten or drank anything for almost twenty-four hours. You have to get something in your stomach so you can recover."

"No," Sherlock pouted.

John held the porcelain teacup closer to Sherlock's face. "Here, just open your mouth and take it."

"That's what she said," Sherlock snickered.

John sighed. "God…"

/

The tea cup was empty and half the broth had been sipped. Watson counted this as an immense victory. Afterwards, he managed to coax Sherlock into a pair of blue cotton pyjamas and then underneath the blankets on the sofa. The meds from the dentist's office were obviously beginning to wear off as Sherlock began spending less time staring at his own fingers and more time complaining about the pain.

"John, seriously, I want to die," he said, deadpan. "Please will you bring me my gun and let me shoot myself." Not a question.

"The doctor prescribed you some very strong Ibuprofen, if you'd like to swallow one," John offered.

"I think I feel stitches," Sherlock said, lisping as his tongue was occupied probing the sides of his mouth. "I don't remember reading anything about stitches."

"Perfectly normal and routine," John replied, rubbing the medicine bottle between his hands, as Sherlock had yet to reach for it. "They're the breakaway kind, so you won't have to get someone to remove them or anything."

"I think I know how to remove stitches," Sherlock snapped.

"Regardless, these will fall out on their own after a while," John added, not letting Sherlock goad him into an ill temper. When minorly injured or ill, Sherlock was basically a child in a man's awkward body. John just treated him like he would any child he saw in the paediatric units. "Why don't you try and get a nap?" he suggested.

Sherlock buried himself up to his neck in his blanket. "Fine," he muttered. After a moment, he added, "I will have one or two of those pills…"

John gladly obliged him, along with a glass of water. After Sherlock had downed two of the large pills, John started off toward the kitchen with the empty glass and the other dishes in the area.

"John…" Sherlock pleaded, quietly.

"Hmm?" John said, turning back around.

"Where's my phone?"

John smiled and fished the phone out of his shirt pocket and gave it over to Sherlock. Sherlock might have muttered "thank you," but it was hard to tell. John went on to the kitchen to clean up.

"John!" came the voice from the living room. "Why does my phone have a picture of me with a teacup on my head?"

The end. ^^


End file.
